“Ye seem overtired, my pet.” Finovola sat on the bed, hugging the doll. “Will ye ever recover from being absconded by the vile MacDonald scourge?”
Anya’s nostrils flared as she clenched her fists so tightly, her nails dug into her palms. “Don’t say that. Never again refer to Islay thus.”
“I beg your pardon? Ye are speaking of Angus Og, are ye not? Fairhair the Terrible with the heart of a devil? The very brother of the scoundrel who killed Da?”
Turning away, Anya didn’t want her sister to see her face. True, only hours ago the same thought had crossed her mind, but that had been when she was at the pinnacle of anger. “He’s nothing like his brother. Even his mother agrees.”
“What are ye saying?”
“I don’t know.” Anya buried her face in her palms. “The Lord of Islay showed me unexpected kindness. If he had not, I would now be laboring in a monastery for the duration of this war, working my fingers to the bone until I was no longer of marriageable age.”
Good heavens, had she just repeated Angus’ words? Had he truly been thinking only of her welfare when he chose to take her home? It had hurt so badly to know she’d never see him again, Anya had been unable to look beyond her own pain to recognize the goodness in his intentions.
Why had she stood on the pier and said nothing when, on bended knee, he’d so passionately kissed her hand? Why had she let him sail away?
17
It was nearly dawn by the time Angus and his men dragged the birlinn onto the shore at Dunyvaig Castle. “Let us go inside and break our fast. I intend to set sail for Turnberry by the hour of terce.”
“No time to sleep?” asked Raghnall.
Angus gestured to the half-dozen clansmen who’d sailed to Ireland with him. “We will have enough men aboard each boat for ye to close your eyes whilst sailing to the mainland if need be.”
No one uttered a word as Angus led the way into the hall. It was a good thing they’d all kept mum. At the moment, there was nothing he’d like more than to bury his fist into someone’s face. And why the bloody hell had saying goodbye to Anya nearly sent him to Hades? Dammit all, he had made his decision and that was the end of it.
After helping himself to a bannock, he left his men in the hall and headed up to his chamber to splash some water on his face and clean his teeth, but before he reached the door, Mither stepped into the passageway. “It is done, then?”
A tic twitched in his jaw as he gripped the pommel of the dirk he wore on his belt. “Aye. Anya O’Cahan has been returned to her home. Where she ought to be, mind ye.”
“If ye believe that, then ye are a fool.”
“Thank ye, Mither. ’Tis nice to ken what ye truly think of me.”
“Bless it, son, I’ve said it afore, and I’ll repeat it now. Ye are stronger than both your father and your elder brother in brawn and your mind is keener, but I do believe God gave ye the short end of the stick when it came to your heart.”
“Mayhap that’s why I feel as if the worthless organ has been ripped from my chest and thrown to the briny deep,” he growled, pushing into this chamber and letting the door swing closed behind him.
He stormed to the bowl and splashed his face, the brisk water providing enough of a shock to clear his muddled mind. After cleaning his teeth and changing his shirt, Angus started below stairs. Stopping at the landing that led to Anya’s chamber, her door caught his eye. Rory no longer occupied the chair she’d placed in the passageway. Angus detoured and grabbed the chair, intending to return it to its place at the small table but once he stepped inside the empty chamber, the onslaught of memories arrested him.
Leaving the chair in the center of the room, he strode to the bed and gazed upon the coverlet, neatly tucked into the mattress, appearing as if it hadn’t been used in ages. But he knew differently. Not long ago, he’d sat at this bedside for hours, praying for Anya’s fever to break.
He picked up the pillow, drew it to his nose, and closed his eyes. Heaven help him, Anya’s scent lingered. As he hugged the cushion to his chest, he imagined holding her in his arms, watching her laugh, watching her draw with a charcoal, watching her chat animatedly with Friar Jo every eve at the far end of the high table.
But it was time to turn his attention to the duty at hand. Angus was the leader of a powerful clan and if the king didn’t send him to the gallows for disobedience, there lay a great many battles ahead. As he moved to replace the pillow, a scroll of vellum tucked under the bedclothes caught his eye. He plucked it from its hiding place and unrolled it.
Good Lord, Anya had drawn a picture of herself atop the wall-walk, gazing out to sea—gazing toward Ireland. She’d caught every detail from the wind picking up her hair to the satiny texture of her skin. Angus could almost smell the salty water, feel the breeze cut through his linen shirt. Most of all, he imagined caressing her cheek with his knuckle, then turning her face up to his and kissing those inviting lips.
“Damnation!” he cursed, slamming the pillow back in its place. He rolled the blasted scroll and shoved it into his sporran. Did she have no idea what leaving such a picture would do to his worthless heart?
Blast it all, his mother was wrong. When it came to his heart, God had made his too large for his chest and too easily broken. Angus could not afford to pine and wallow in misery. That is exactly why he had not allowed himself to fall in love since Ella, and it was exactly why he must buck up now and forget Anya O’Cahan had ever entered his life.
Having gone without closing his eyes for too long, Angus felt as if his head was filled with flax tow as he and his men strode through the gates of Turnberry Castle.
“What are ye planning to tell the Bruce about the lass?” asked Raghnall.
Angus thumped the man-at-arm’s helm. “I’ll wager that question has been needling at ye since I decided to take Miss Anya back to Carrickfergus.”
“Aye. And so it should do. ’Tis no’ as if ye have a seasoned heir waiting in the wings when the king sends ye to the gallows.”
Angus ground his molars as he adjusted his sword belt. “I aim to tell the bloody truth.”
Raghnall rolled his eyes skyward. “God save us.”
“Wheesht,” Angus growled. “Oh, ye of little faith.”
“I happen to like my faith, as well as my skin,” Raghnall mumbled under his breath.
Arthur Campbell approached and extended his hand. “’Tis good to see ye, Islay. It seems ye’ve arrived in time to face the English yet again.”
Angus clasped the knight’s forearm in a show of solidarity. “When do we march?”
“Soon.” Campbell led the way into the keep. “Spies have reported the English are readying to move northward.”
“We need a victory.”
“Aye, we need a parcel of them.”
“The Lord of Islay,” boomed the steward as Angus stepped into the great hall.
The walls were festooned with tapestries in rich reds and verdant greens. Behind the dais stood a fireplace, spanning the entire width from wall to wall.
Robert the Bruce looked to Angus, as all heads turned. Many a powerful man sat at the board with the king—Lennox, Boyd, Douglas, and Keith, to name a few.